Away With The Fairies (18 page)

‘This one’s about greasy hair and this one’s about chickenpox scars,’ said Dot. ‘This one’s about a child that won’t eat its nice rice pudding and this one … perhaps it might be this one,’ said Dot, handing over a small piece of paper written in the same square handwriting of the unsigned threat. Phryne held the two letters together and compared them. Same paper, same handwriting.

‘A match, I think?’ she asked. Dot nodded.

‘“Dear Artemis, I’m in awful trouble. I’m the mother of three children and I’m a widow. I work as a cleaning lady for a lot of different houses. One of my children is ill and the doctor says he has to have medicine and I can’t afford it. I saw a ten shilling note on the floor of one house. It was folded up small as though it fell out of a watch pocket. I swept it up with the dust and used it to buy the medicine for my little Billy. Now he’s worse and it’s a judgment on me. What should I do?” That doesn’t sound like it would give rise to threats of murder.’

‘It depends on what Artemis told her to do,’ said Dot.

‘Well, whatever it was, it didn’t work, did it? Any address on the letter?’

‘Yes, Miss. Carlton. Lygon Street.’

‘Good. Go there tomorrow morning, Dot, dear, she’s more likely to talk to you. Take some money. If she’s that skint she might respond to a little cash in hand. See if you can get the address from Anne’s letter, too. The police should come up with the owner of the post box where “Desperate” had her letters sent by tomorrow. That’s the five on my A list,’ said Phryne. ‘We may be getting somewhere, Dot.’

‘I do hope so, Miss,’ said Dot. ‘What are you going to do tomorrow?’

‘I’m going to find out about the residents of the apartments in the afternoon,’ said Phryne. ‘I will go to the Adventuresses in the morning. I need to speak to Bunji Ross. I might need to hire a plane,’ said Phryne.

She put herself to bed and dreamt of nothing at all.

‘Where you takin’ me?’ slurred Pirates as Cec lifted him not ungently out of the chair and half carried him towards the door.

‘To my place for a bit of a sleep, and then we have to clean you up to meet a lady.’

‘Took us all night to find you,’ agreed Bert, colliding slowly with the doorpost, revolving once, and skidding down the steps. ‘You’re a slippery bugger, Pirates. Come on. There’s another quid in it for yer.’

‘Could do with a bit o’ kip,’ agreed Pirates.

Both he and Bert were fast asleep before Cec could start the bonzer new taxi.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The third line, divided, shows one acting contrary
to the method of nourishing. Let him take no
action for ten years, for it will not be in any way
advantageous.

Hexagram 27: I
The I Ching Book of Changes

The Adventuresses Club was always quiet in the morning. Most of the ladies had families, work or trades, or a combination of them all. Kate let Phryne in through the brass bound door, which had belonged to the good old lawless days of Melbourne, where if one wanted to re-enact the old Irish test, a virgin of either sex carrying the statutory baby and a crock of gold wouldn’t survive unrobbed and unravished for more time than it took the local criminals to rehitch their jaws.

In the enlightened and modern year of 1928, the virgin might make it to the tram if he or she ditched the gold or the baby and was reasonably fit.

Phryne smiled slightly as she rode up to the library in the lift. Concentrated research might calm her mind. What did the library contain?

A very good map of the South China Sea, for a start. Phryne spread it out on the table and pinned the corners flat with
The Life and Death of Scarlatt Blackbones, Pyrat,
a
Guidebook
to Hong Kong
, volume nine of
The Newgate Chronicle or
the Malefactor’s Bloody Register
and a small shabby book called
Reminiscences of the South China Sea by A Lady
. This might, of course, prove to be pornography. A lot of tomes written by A Lady were. No one weeded the Adventuresses Club library and a curious collection of books had accumulated as members culled their own libraries or inherited or bought strange volumes. Phryne understood that there was an excellent collection on ‘Magic in Theory and Practice’ and quite a number of travellers’ tales.

The members themselves were required to write copious notes, if not actually publish books, on their own adventures. These were frank enough to beguile even on a dark, sleety afternoon in July.

Borrowing books was simple. One wrote the titles in a large book. If they were not returned, the committee sent a deputation around to reclaim them. Unpublished books could not be borrowed. The committee had strong views on the way that amazing deeds done by women vanished out of the historical record, and they had a collection of the works of Mary Kingsley, Gertude Bell, Flora Tristan, Mildred Cable and Francesca French, among others, to prove it. Phryne had heard that the club was intending to bring out small editions of the travellers’ tales. Just so that no one could delete them again. So that no one could call an explorer, by definition, ‘he’.

Phryne located Bias Island, its bay clearly marked, in a niche of coast not far from Hong Kong. The Chinese shore, which stretched up to Russia and down past Borneo, was riddled with little inlets in which a pirate might hide. Not to mention all those islands which dotted the ocean all the way to Australia. A place positively designed for piracy.

Phryne left the map and consulted
The Life and Death of
Scarlatt Blackbones,
discarding it after a brief skim. Eighteenth century Port Royal scoundrels would not assist in her endeavours. She shut the book on the illustration of the ‘pyrat’s horrid fate’, which was quite comprehensive, and opened the
Guidebook
to Hong Kong
. No index entry on piracy. She flipped quickly through. The only mention was a footnote, in which the reader was told that ‘travelling in a small coastal craft exposes the traveller to the risk of piracy. An expedition has long been mooted to clear out the pirates from Bias Island, a notorious pirate stronghold. Doubtless the authorities will take condign action in the near future. Meanwhile, tourists are asked to consider booking passage on the larger ships, which are not attacked.’

Nice, but not a lot of use to Lin Chung. During the ‘strong action’, the pirates would kill any prisoners so that they could not bear witness against them. Not encouraging. Phryne rang the bell and ordered coffee.

The Newgate Chronicle
contained the awful story of the fate of the
Mignonette
, in which the shipwrecked sailors ate the cabin boy, Richard Parker. Interesting but not helpful. Phryne left it open at the other entry on pirates.

The little book by A Lady was treasure. The Lady had been the concubine of one of the White Rajah’s young men, and he had taught her English while she had taught him the local language. Her grandmother had been a pirate with the famous Shap-’ng-tsai, whose fleets had been wrecked by an expedition under Commander Dalrymple in 1849. Steam had outmanoeuvred sail and superior firepower had decimated the fleet. Female pirates were not uncommon, it seemed. A Lady mentioned Ching Shih, widow of a notorious pirate, who had commanded an entire navy of junks and had later retired into smuggling as a less perilous life. The first clearing of Bias Bay, and the reason why the guidebook was so sure that the authorities would sooner or later act, was to extirpate the pirate Chui Apu in 1849. It had been successful. But the pirates had come back. After all, why abandon a strategically perfect island just because it was burned down? The island remained. The loss of ships had been great, but the fleet could be built up again by trade and theft. Commander Dalrymple had gone to his reward and the pirates were back in Bias Bay.

After all, what was a ship? A small floating prison. All its valuables were in one place and could not be otherwise hidden. One could not run away, especially in shark-infested seas. The pirates attacked the equivalent of the lonely farmhouse on the moor, far from help. Unless there was some strange stroke of luck, there would be no rescue. The sea was very big.

Despicable. Phryne slammed
The Newgate Chronicle
shut on a picture of the Notorious Female Pyrat Mary Read, closed the
Reminiscences
and rolled up the map. If she had to, she would fly to Hong Kong and lean on the Governor. Something had to be done.

Dot paused outside the small house in Carlton, gathering up her courage. Lygon Street was hot and busy. Dot had put on her most subdued clothes. She did not want to frighten Mrs Joyce, the cleaning lady. Dot had found out the name from the municipal register. The fact that Mrs Joyce was in there at all meant that she was alone. If she had been married, her husband’s name would have been listed as the householder.

The house was shabby. It needed a paint job and the removal of the birds’ nests from the spouting. It was one of those flat-faced stone houses with a heavy balcony above the front door, casting it into black shadow. The front doorstep, however, the housewife’s pride, was scrubbed as white as snow.

She knocked. Slow footsteps dragged their way to the door, which creaked open. A middle-aged woman wiped her soapy hands on her red-flowered apron and said, ‘Yes?’

The voice had not been born to be a cleaning lady. ‘My name is Dot Williams,’ said Dot. ‘I’ve got a question to ask. Can I come in?’

‘If you’re from the landlord, I haven’t got the money yet. I lost a cleaning job recently.’

‘I know you did. On Artemis’s advice,’ said Dot gently.

‘Do you come from that bitch?’ demanded the woman, balling one fist.

‘She’s dead,’ said Dot. Faded blue eyes scanned her face and what they saw must have satisfied them.

‘Good,’ said Mrs Joyce with deep satisfaction. ‘Come in.’

‘You’re here alone?’ asked Dot, following her down the hall to a small, sparkling clean parlour. There was a fresh frill of paper in the fireplace and every surface gleamed. Mrs Joyce clearly kept the same standards for her own house as for her clients.

‘Just me and little Billy. He’s asleep, so I’ve been getting on with the washing. Due to that Artemis, I lost my five mornings a week. I’ll have to find another position, but work’s hard to get when you can’t live in. My other two are at school. What’s your question?’

‘What did Artemis tell you?’

‘To go and confess,’ said Mrs Joyce disgustedly. ‘And me so soft and so worried about Billy, I did. And they fired me on the spot without a reference. They’d never have known if I hadn’t told them. I managed to pay the ten shillings back so they didn’t call the police but that meant I’ve got behind on the rent and that skinflint won’t hesitate to throw me out on the street.’

‘If you can give me some answers and Artemis’s letter, I can pay you for them,’ said Dot awkwardly. She was not happy offering people money. This consideration did not seem to bother Mrs Joyce.

‘I’ve got it somewhere …’ She rummaged in a large straw basket with raffia flowers on it, sorted through a handful of unpaid bills and found an envelope.

‘All right, now, Miss, some answers from you,’ she said firmly. ‘Who are you and why do you want this letter?’

‘Artemis was murdered,’ said Dot. ‘The police investigation was delayed. My employer is a private detective, Miss Phryne Fisher. She wants to collect the evidence in a quiet way and present the Detective Inspector with the result. Otherwise he’ll be rummaging through everyone’s private life and making scandals.’

‘She’s protecting someone,’ declared Mrs Joyce.

‘Probably,’ said Dot. ‘But I trust her.’

Mrs Joyce was captured by Dot’s transparent simplicity. Here was a young woman who meant exactly what she said. Mrs Joyce stretched her aching back, folded her work-worn hands in the lap of her apron and surrendered.

‘All right, what’s the question?’

‘Did you know Artemis? Where she lived, who she was?’

‘No. How could I? I sent that letter, I was so wild, I can’t afford to lose a job. Then I thought better of it, but it was too late. I never signed either of them so no one could find me, though your Miss Fisher did.’

‘The letters were posted in Kew.’

‘I’ve got a job in Kew. I just stuck them in the nearest letterbox.’

‘Where were you on Sunday morning between seven and eight?’

‘Getting the kids ready for Sunday School. We go to Saint Joseph’s, around the corner. Ask the priest if you don’t believe me.’

‘Early mass is eight o’clock,’ mused Dot.

‘So it is,’ confirmed Mrs Joyce.

‘I don’t have anything else to ask,’ said Dot. ‘Will you sell me the letter?’

Mrs Joyce gave it to her. Dot opened her purse and handed over the five pound note Phryne had given her for bribes.

‘Five quid?’ asked Mrs Joyce, scanning the note as though she hadn’t seen very many of them in her life.

‘Miss Fisher is a generous lady. That ought to pay the rent and keep you going until you get another job,’ said Dot. ‘How’s little Billy?’

‘Getting on better now,’ said Mrs Joyce, folding the note and secreting it in her corset. ‘Doctor thinks he’s turned the corner. Thanks. Tell your employer, thanks. Thanks very much. I’ll …’ Mrs Joyce scrambled for an adequate response, astounded by the wealth which had been lavished on her. ‘I’ll pray for her. This will make all the difference to us.’

Dot left on a wave of goodwill and walked away past the shops, mentally crossing Mrs Joyce off Phryne’s list.

Now for Mrs Anne Corder, of Caroline Street, South Yarra. Dot took a tram, fumbling for pennies.

Little Bourke Street was not long enough. Phryne could have walked twice as far before her temper cooled, though even a foot race from Athens to Sparta, Sparta to Marathon and then Marathon to Athens might not have had any appreciable effect. It did give her time to compose her mind.

Little Bourke was always busy and redolent of foreign scents and strange faces and unknown languages. On previous visits she had been with Lin Chung. They had been stared at and hurtful comments had been made; mixed marriages were not allowed in Little Bourke Street. Mixed alliances, between a fashionable and rich lady and the only grandson of Madame Lin, were allowable if that matriarch agreed, and so far, she had agreed.